Desiree

by Roberta Gellis

  Desiree read gladly, aware of Frewyn’s fond gaze on her, aware that he looked pleased and satisfied. Desiree wondered whether Alex had confessed. If he had, Frewyn was not at all angry. But then tears rose to her eyes and she had to blink hard to keep the words on the parchment clear. Frewyn had always been a careful manager; he was arranging everything to run smoothly when he was no longer there to guide events.

  She had not read long enough to tire her voice when Elias came to tell her that the table was set up for the evening meal. For the first time since Father Harold had left her, she was embarrassed. How could she sit beside Alex and speak to him? The scent of him, his deep voice, the careful way he chose and put the very best on her trencher would wake her body—she knew it. She would sin again, lusting after him. Yet she dared not avoid him.

  So Desiree went out and took her place between Alex and Vachel. Father Harold sat beyond Vachel and Elias came from Frewyn’s chamber a moment later and sat beside Alex. Alex cleared his throat…and then did not speak.

  Vachel was aware that something was wrong but could not guess what it was. Probing, he said, “I am sorry that Sir Frewyn seems to be failing.”

  For once Desiree turned to him and gave him a bright, if strained, smile. “Oh, no,” she babbled, grateful even to Vachel for breaking the silence and offering an opening into a conversation. “He is much better, well enough that Pollock can care for him without help so Elias can join us for the evening meal. Is that not true, Elias?”

  “Yes, thank God,” Elias answered easily. His whole attention was centered on Sir Frewyn, and he was less aware than anyone else of the tension at the table. “Lady Alinor sent a medicine that was of help to her grandmother, who suffered much the same illness as Sir Frewyn. He has had three doses, and it does seem to be restoring his strength.”

  Vachel was appalled. He mouthed some platitude and heard Father Harold’s voice, but he had no idea what he had said and made no sense of Father Harold’s reply. Now—mentally he called down every curse he knew on Lady Alinor’s head—that meddling bitch seemed to have revived Frewyn. The old man had already lingered over five months since he had the fit. He might linger five more. That was too long. Vachel knew he would have to use the drugs.

  How to get them into the wine was still the question. He knew that when Pollock was alone with his master, he would leave the flagon for the evening cup of wine by the door of Frewyn’s chamber. A servant would take it to be filled and bring it back, often leaving it by the door for Pollock to take in. The drugs could be dropped into the wine easily enough.

  Vachel had already arranged his escape. Two of the new recruits, who helped in the stable, would look aside or even help saddle his horse when he wished to leave. It would cost two more pennies. Vachel stabbed his knife viciously into the roast and tore out a hunk of meat. The priest remonstrated softly. Vachel snarled. There was no help for it. He would have to pay. Nicolaus would not give him money. However, when he went to Prince John with the news of Simon’s death, he could expect a reward.

  On the other side of Desiree, Alex sat silent. He had tried twice to speak, to ask a neutral question about supplies to feed the recruited men, but he could not force his voice through his constricted throat. Everything else was constricted also, the gambeson far too tight over his shoulders, interfering with his attempts to reach platters to hold for Desiree. Not to mention the way the gambeson bound across his thighs and groin where his unruly shaft strove to rise no matter his shame.

  Unable to control his body, Alex began to seek through his mind for faults, for instances of poor judgment and duty left undone. Spread over and under all that he had done right was one great wrong. He had never told Sir Simon about the strong probability that his brother was a spy for Prince John. Yes, that was the word…spy, and agent too.

  To be rid of Vachel, Alex had planned to spend some of Simon’s silver pennies to pay a fisherman to take Vachel to France or put him on a French boat. What he had not considered was that Vachel might either convince the fisherman or the owner of the French boat to take him right back to England. Or he might land in France and then come back.

  Alex stared unseeingly at the slices of pork he had laid on his trencher. He had failed in his duty to Sir Simon, to the sheriff of Sussex, to King Richard. He had failed to point out a danger all because of his too-great pride, because of the shame he felt that his brother be known as a spy. He must send out a message to Sir Simon at once, confessing his sin—at least he could confess that sin.

  “Alex. Eat something.”

  He jumped as if he had been stung. His head turned as if wrenched in her direction by strong cords. Desiree sighed. She wanted very much to touch Alex’s cheek, to smooth the worried frown from his brow.

  She saw his eyes flick toward Vachel and thought it was his brother who worried him. How dreadful to feel such distrust and dislike for your own blood. Desiree remembered how she had loved and trusted her brothers, how she had run to them when a toy was broken or someone spoke unkindly to her. Oh, to be able to take Alex in her arms and assure him he had family, that she would love and stand by him. Warmth, sinful warmth, rose in her.

  Hurriedly she said, “I do not know why, but I was thinking about my brothers and how much I miss them still.”

  An expression of acute pain crossed Alex’s face, but then he said, “I am beginning to forget my mother’s face.” And he leaned forward to speak across Desiree and Vachel. “Father, Lady Desiree spoke of her brothers, and I thought at once of my mother and I realized that—that I do not remember her face.”

  “It will come back to you,” Father Harold said, smiling. “But it will come back to what you remember as a child. She will be young and strong again and able to comfort you when you need her. I have known this to happen more than once after the loss of a dearly beloved person. It is a special mercy, I think.”

  “God knows I need that mercy,” Alex sighed. But then he looked down at the food before him with real attention and began to eat.

  Desiree turned her head toward Father Harold at once. If Alex had found some peace, something pleasant to think about, she did not want to draw his attention. “But, Father,” she said, “I always remember my brothers just as they were.”

  The priest laughed heartily. “You would not want to remember them any younger,” he said. “Likely enough when they were little boys they tormented you.”

  Desiree laughed too. Now that Father Harold had mentioned it, she did remember that things had not always been sweet and light between her and her brothers. She recalled fleeing to her mother to hide when they threatened her with little snakes or large beetles.

  Vachel said, “I never had a sister. We all hoped, even my father, that Alex would be a girl.”

  From the other side of Alex, Elias said, “We are very grateful here at Exceat that he was not. We like him just as he is. But it is a good thing for a man to have sisters. Mine are dead now, but they were a kindness and a binding in the family.”

  Alex had paid no attention. He had been wondering what his mother would have said to him if he told her that he was about to betray Vachel. But to take the chance that Vachel would return to England and attach himself to Sir Simon as sister’s son and use what he learned to help Prince John… No. That, Alex knew, was a violation of his oaths to Sir Simon. Simon must be warned and must send the warning to others as he saw fit.

  He began to think of what he should say to Simon and then of whether he could ask Father Harold to write for him. Alex’s teeth ground together with shame. He did not think he could bear to say the word spy to Father Harold to be written down. It was bad enough to know that Simon would read it. That was duty. Simon had to know. Father Harold did not.

  Shortly thereafter the conversation around him ended. He rose and bowed to Desiree and went back to his room where he carefully left the door wide open. There, a brilliant idea occurred to him. He said over in his mind what he must write to Sir Simon and began to look on the shelf he h
ad had affixed to the wall for the parchments, letters and simple tales that Father Harold lent him to practice reading.

  One here and one there in the parchments, Alex found the words he needed. Taking an old piece of parchment and his inkhorn and quills, Alex drew his candle close and began to compose his letter copying each word he needed from the letters and tales.

  It was very late when he finished and his hand was shaking with the strain of holding the pen and making small, small movements, strong enough to mark the parchment with ink but gentle enough not to spatter or break the quill. He had broken three.

  One benefit of his exertion was that he was too tired to torment himself over what he had done to Desiree. He thought of it in those terms. It was true that she had come into his arms, but he had known that she was seeking comfort because she feared Lady Alinor’s medicine would shorten Sir Frewyn’s life. Just, when he touched her… Alex groaned, but the sound drifted away from him, and he slept.

  Something disturbed him early the next morning, and he half woke, reaching for the knife he had kept under his pillow since he knew Vachel was in the keep. Nothing came near, however, and he sank back to sleep again, but not for long. Half-awake as he was, he could not ignore the noise of the servants’ rising and rolling their pallets, talking, fetching water.

  Alex sat up, wincing at the soreness of his right hand. He looked down at it, wondering if he had been hit by a wild blow by one of the men in training, but the hand was not bruised, it was cramped. He flexed it, hissed between his teeth, remembered that the stiffness was owing to writing and that he still had to do a fair copy of the letter.

  He pulled on his underclothing, washed, and sought in the chest the shirt in which he had come to England, now so worn that he had planned to use it for rags. It was good enough, he thought, to go under his old tunic, patched and stained, which was also in the chest.

  He discovered, however, that it was a lengthy struggle to get into them. The shirt split right down the back and the tunic, which still fit over the hips and belly, strained to the point of bursting over his chest and shoulders. Alex felt a little surprised. He had not realized that he had added so much weight and muscle. Well, he thought, with mixed pride and resignation, that is what comes from wielding, a sword every day.

  He hurried out to Mass, slipping in at the very back of the chapel, and as soon as he murmured the final Amen, hurried back to his own chamber to do penance for every sin of his life with a pen and a clean piece of parchment.

  To Siman Lemain sherf Susix from Alex Badin, gretigs. If you are well I am well also. I write in haste to confess a sin and a failure in my duty. Although it is not certain, I have good reason to believe that my brother, Vechil, is a spy and an agent for Prince John. I am very sorry that I did not send this message with Byfrt, but I thought to hide the shame of what my brother was because I had him fast in Exceat and thought he could do no harm. I planned to pay one of our fisherfolk to take him back to France where he would be no danger, but then I realized that he could return and claiming kinship be welcomed into Roselynde and perhaps see or hear too much. I await your judgment on my failure in duty.

  He had no source for Sir Simon’s name and office or for his own and those words did not look altogether right, but Reid, who would carry the message, could make clear who it was for and from whom it came. The rest of the words, copied painfully from letters and tales looked right to him. There were a few blots and splatters, but he did not think he would do better if he tried again.

  Alex sat back and waved the parchment in the air to dry. He had been aware as he wrote that the life of the keep was continuing around him. People passed his door. Once Farman came in and deposited a cup of ale, a half loaf of bread, and a large wedge of cheese on his table, saying they wanted to clear away the food for breaking fast. A little later his whole body tensed; he heard Desiree’s footsteps approaching. His breath caught when she spoke outside his door, but she was talking to her maid and passed on.

  It was quieter now. The morning chores were finished. The table that held cheese and cold pasty, ale and bread for breaking the night’s fast was put away, the scraps collected for the animals or beggars. Cups and serving platters had been removed for washing and some of the older servants were polishing those, but the women had gone up to their quarters to work and most of the men were occupied with outdoor tasks.

  Alex was bent over his letter, reading it one last time when Desiree’s voice came clear in the relative quiet.

  “You will need to pour off the steepings, each into the jar I have left beside the crock. The powders are done, thank goodness. How I hate all that grinding. But I must mark down the need for more dried poppy. There is enough dried valerian.”

  “Yes. It will last until the new crop is ready.”

  “I think so. Frewyn hates the taste of it, so I rarely offer it to him,” Desiree replied, paused and added, “I will go in now to see how Frewyn is. Take these packets and put them in the chest of medicines. Keep this one separate; you see it is marked with a cross. That is more than double strength, and I have added some hemlock to make sure.”

  “Hemlock is dangerous,” the maid said.

  For a moment there was silence, as if the women’s eyes had met. The maid uttered a choked giggle and her footsteps passed Alex’s door while Desiree’s died away as she turned toward Frewyn’s room.

  Alex almost jumped up just to watch Desiree walk away, but he managed to resist that sin. He waited until she was safe inside Frewyn’s room before he went to find Reid to carry his message to Roselynde.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Vachel had been planning to make civil inquiries about Frewyn’s health, however, it was not necessary. Elias and the priest were voluble enough about the improvement in Frewyn without the smallest urging. Alex did not break his fast with the household that morning. Vachel could see him bent over his table through the open door.

  Why was the door open? Alex had kept it closed most of the time until…until after the evening meal yesterday. The door had been open all night. Vachel had thought of sneaking in and putting a pillow over Alex’s face…but it was only a brief thought. Ever since Alex had nearly strangled him with one hand he had grudgingly acknowledged that Alex was no longer a thin stripling but a powerful man. All the more reason to kill Frewyn and get away from Exceat.

  He had plenty to do. The morning passed while behind the closed door of his room, Vachel packed. He rolled his good gowns and tunics into tight cylinders and packed them into a thin blanket, which he rolled and tied. As long as Alex did not see him, he doubted anyone else would suspect he intended to flee Exceat.

  Dinner was very quiet. Elias ate with them. Frewyn, he reported with glowing pleasure, was gaining strength. He was able to hold his head up and swallow, so Pollock could feed him without help. Father Harold concurred and Desiree said that he had been able to close his hand around hers.

  “And do you think he will soon be able to walk again? Vachel asked.

  Both Father Harold’s and Elias’s happy expression changed and both shook their heads sadly. “No,” Elias sighed, “Sir Frewyn will never walk again. Lady Alinor’s medicine gives him more strength, but it cannot cure the effects of the fit.”

  Alex’s gaze touched on Vachel and then, to his surprise, winced away. He looked, Vachel thought, ashamed. Then Vachel smiled broadly. Of course he was ashamed. Alex could not want Frewyn to recover. If the old man became capable again, he would lose his position as castellan.

  Then he realized that a smile was not the right response to what Elias had said. Vachel saw the shock on Father Harold’s face. Trying to recover he said, “At least Sir Frewyn is stronger.”

  Alex. All he had to do was think of Alex and he was in trouble, Vachel thought furiously. But nothing else went wrong for him. After a spell in Frewyn’s chamber, Alex disappeared into the lower floor of the keep with several men-at-arms. Shrieks of agony came up the stairwell faintly; Vachel suspected those were wrung fro
m Nicolaus’s men. Alex was occupied and it gave Vachel plenty of time to move his belongings down to the stable and make everything ready for a hasty departure.

  More good luck followed. Nicolaus’s men were brought up from the dungeon, their hands bound, and shackled to each other with neck collars. Alex and more men-at-arms drove them out of the keep and onto the road to Cuckhaven. Seeing them released from the dungeon made Vachel wonder whether he too would be freed, but he made no attempt to leave. There was no sense in drawing attention to himself.

  Alex did not come to the evening meal, but Desiree, Elias, and Father Harold were in the best of good humors, and even included Vachel in their conversation. Of course, there was little he could add since they talked mostly about the affairs of the keep. It seemed that the added men were placing a strain on the supplies and more food was hard to obtain at the very beginning of spring.

  When the meal ended and most of the torches on the wall were quenched, Vachel knew that Alex’s absence was a signal that his luck had finally turned. One torch burned near Frewyn’s door, but Father Harold took it in with him when he entered to sit with Frewyn. To Vachel’s surprise und utter delight, Elias did not follow Father Harold but went with Desiree into the wall chamber that was used for keeping records and accounts. For a while Vachel lingered by the fire as he usually did, but as that burned low, he went off to his own room. It was dark enough for him to open the door a crack from which he could watch.

  After a while, Father Harold came out, carrying with him the flagon for Frewyn’s nighttime drink of wine. The priest handed the vessel to Farman, who carried it off to he filled. Vachel removed the packet of drugs from where he had carried it in his tunic just above his belt. He could not afford to be fumbling around to remove it when he was ready to drop the drugs into Frewyn’s wine. He would have to be swift and sure. He nodded to himself, untwisted one end of the thin parchment, made sure the powder was dry with no lumps, and held it closed with pinched fingers.